After The Deluge
by r4ven3
Summary: This story - in 3 chapters - opens a little over two weeks after Harry gave away Albany to save Ruth. Both are on suspension. How to communicate? Ruth has an idea, but is it a good one?
1. Chapter 1

_He escaped the lynch days. He survives. …..._

_They let him live, but not from pity_  
_Or human sufferance. He scratches life_  
_From earth, no worse a mortal man than the rest._

From "_After the Deluge_" by Wole Soyinka

**_(A/N: This poem is actually about corrupt officials in Nigeria, but I am `borrowing' some of Soyinka's words, as they also fit Harry, post 9.8)_**

* * *

The hardest thing about breaking into Harry's house had been climbing the garden wall at the back. She'd never been active or athletic, and she was not one to run when a stroll would suffice. Games such as tennis and netball had bewildered her with their myriad of complex rules and (as she saw it) peculiar objectives, and she'd never quite understood the attraction of gymnastics or callisthenics, although many of the popular girls at school had thrown themselves around in pursuit of the perfect dive or twist or twirl or …... whatever. All she'd needed was something to help her get her closer to the top of the wall, and a neighbour's wheelie bin had provided her with the height and the stability. The rest she had managed with a bit of grunt, some daring, and massive doses of stupidity, given the circumstances. Breaking in through his back door was easy, but perhaps, after all, unwise.

Once inside, she is no longer sure why she is there, or whether she should just turn around and leave.

Aside from a light over the cooker, the house is in darkness. The house smells of him, and she stops for a moment to savour it …... his cologne and his shaving soap dominate, then there's the rich aroma of coffee, a tinge of whiskey, the dampness from his coat from him being caught in a shower of rain, and then blending with all is the whiff of maleness which belongs to him and no other, his signature smell. Together, these smells are Harry. She has never smelled him sweaty after he'd been working in the garden, she'd not been close to him after he'd taken a shower, and she'd never buried her face in his skin after he'd made love. Nor can she see that ever changing.

She knows he has a dog, but there are no paws on floorboards or barking in the dark. Harry is not home, although he should be. They'd both been suspended almost two weeks ago, and contact between them is forbidden, which rules out phone calls, and visits, even meetings in parks. She is here because she needs to talk to him. Their last conversation rattles around in her head, a haunting of words better left unsaid. She wishes she could turn back the clock so that her words to Harry, "_At that moment, when you decided to make that deal, it was unfair of you to love me_", could be erased from history. Her words were cruel and abrasive, throwing his love for her back in his face. Harry's face had been stern and stoic, even accepting, but his eyes had told her how much she had hurt him. No amount of apologising would likely help. The damage had been done. Still, she felt the need to try.

She wanders down the hallway towards the front door, and sees that his keys are missing, and the only coat hanging on the coat hooks is his lightweight trench coat. She suspects he is out, but he can't be far away. Internal Affairs have people watching him, and he is meant to be staying close to home. Climbing the back wall and entering the house through the back door is the only way she could see him without being seen. Had lights been on in the kitchen or living room, she would have knocked. She knows she is justifying her method of entry after the fact. She will have to create a good story for him, if she doesn't want him to kick her out into the cold. She wouldn't blame him if he did.

It occurs to her that he may be upstairs, perhaps even asleep, so she quietly mounts the stairs, and finds her way along the upstairs hallway in the dark. There is no sign of him in his office, the spare room, or bathroom, which leaves only his bedroom at the end of the hallway. Being up here like this, without his knowledge or permission, is not part of her plan. Her plan had him either in the kitchen making a cup of tea, or in his sitting room drinking. The latter seemed the most likely scenario. She would have comforted him, taken way his booze, and then apologised, although not necessarily in that order. She's here now, her hand on the doorknob to his bedroom, and she only has two choices available to her – retreat and leave, or continue into the room. She has not come this far for nothing, so she opens the door and looks inside.

Harry's bedroom is dark, with only the bare minimum of light finding its way between the curtains from a streetlight outside the neighbour's house. The bed is made and empty. She steps inside the room, recognising she has passed the half-way point, and from here there will be no going back, no returning to the kitchen and leaving the way she had come. She is in Harry's bedroom, now standing next to Harry's bed – without Harry in it, but that is only a minor distinction, since she has broken into his home, his sanctuary, his own personal space, all so she can offer him an apology. Even to her ears, her reasons and rationalising of her actions sounds absurd.

She is here, in his bedroom, because she misses him, and wants to see him, hear his voice, and perhaps feel the touch of his skin on her own. More would be nice, but that is not something she expects. She is here because she misses him. He has been her anchor, her strength and stability for so long. He is a hard habit to break.

Ruth is tired. It is late at night, and she walked the last mile and a half to Harry's house, and then climbed the wall at the back. The adrenalin in her system is starting to leave, and she is fading by the minute. The last bus has left, and she is stuck here, in his bedroom, with him elsewhere. This leaves her no alternative. She removes her shoes and socks and her jeans, and then her windcheater and her long-sleeved t-shirt, leaving her dressed only in her black lace knickers and camisole. She carries her clothes and shoes to the far side of the bed (assuming he sleeps on the side closest the door), drops them in a heap on the floor, lifts the duvet and slides under it, keeping to the far side of the bed …... just in case he comes home later. Despite her circumstances, she is asleep within minutes.

* * *

Ruth wakes suddenly, not sure what it is has shocked her from sleep. She tries to breathe evenly, as she adjusts to her new environment. She suddenly remembers she is in Harry's room, in his _bed_, and by the movement of the mattress under her body, he seems to be in his bed beside her. The room is dark, the only light coming from the small gap where the curtains don't quite meet. Very slowly, Ruth turns her head towards where she felt the movement, and she sees Harry lying on his side facing her, his eyes closed, his mouth set in a firm line. He appears to be asleep, as he breathes slowly and deeply. This may be her only chance to be this close to him while he sleeps. His body generates a warmth, a heat, which embraces her like a blanket, and his Harry smell fills her nostrils, a delicious olfactory cocktail. He feels safe and familiar. She longs to reach out and touch him, to slide her finger along his jaw, or to press her lips to his, to run her fingers through his hair, or to lie against him, her chest pressed against his.

Ruth, recognising that even her thoughts are running away from her, turns away from him, slips out of bed, grabs her pile of clothes and her shoes, and begins to creep past the foot of the bed on her way to the door. She'd forgotten about the creaky floorboard, and steps on it. The noise it makes echoes inside the room, the silence of the night giving it a voice. She is about to continue towards the door when a deep and familiar voice stops her.

"You're not leaving without saying goodbye, are you, Ruth?"

"Christ, I thought you were asleep."

"I was, but I was woken by someone in my bed – uninvited, but quite welcome, all the same – and then this same person jumped on the loose floorboard -"

"I didn't jump, I crept."

"Come back to bed, Ruth," he said. "I miss you already."

Ruth stands at the foot of the bed, watching him, trying to determine if he's serious, or pulling her leg. She'd expected him to be angry, but she's sure he's not. "Do you mean that?"

"It's God-knows-what o'clock, neither of us have a job to go to tomorrow, the men in shiny suits will be back on duty in a few hours, so …... yes, I mean it. It's not every night I come home from walking my dog to find a delightful woman in my bed."

His words have embarrassed her, and she is sure that he is having a lend of her. Watching him, saying nothing, she sees him pull himself to a sitting position, his back resting against his pillow. "I imagine you came here for a reason, Ruth. You could hardly have mistaken my bed for your own."

Harry's voice is soft and deep, and …... and exceedingly sexy when he's half-asleep and teasing her. She wishes she'd known that earlier, before she'd turned down his second dinner invitation …... before she'd gone into exile …... before she'd punished him for letting George die …... before...

She turns and puts her pile of clothes on the floor beside her side of the bed. _My side of the bed!_ _What next? Whose turn is it to turn out the light, make the breakfast, walk the dog?_

"Are you sure about this?" she asks.

"Never more certain about anything. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, Harry."

He lifts the duvet on her side of the bed, and she crawls in, turning so that the bottom half of her body is under the duvet, and her head is on the pillow. When she's stopped wriggling, and appears comfortable, Harry carefully drops the duvet, so that she is covered to her neck. He, on the other hand, is sitting, the duvet pulled up to his waist, a t-shirt covering his chest. In the almost-dark, his eyes shine brightly, watching her every move.

"I'm glad you decided to pop in," he says at last.

"I arrived earlier, but you were out."

"Now, I don't remember letting you in, Ruth …..."

"I …... I picked the back door lock. Harry, your front door security may be state-of-the-art, but any regular thug could wander through your back door blindfolded. Had you been home, I would have knocked."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ruth. How did you manage the garden wall? It's high, and you're …... well …... height-challenged."

"I used your neighbour's wheelie bin."

"Mmm." He thinks for a moment, and that moment becomes a minute, and then another minute. "I suppose you have a reason for being here – in my house, and now in my bed."

"I needed to see you – to talk to you – and then – well – I got tired, so I decided to go to bed."

"There's a spare room, you know."

"I didn't think of that, and I was sure you were out for the night."

"Where would I go, Ruth? You're my closest friend, and we're not meant to be in contact, and yet here we are, in bed together."

"You have lots of friends, Harry. I thought you might be visiting your daughter."

"She's in …... er …... I think it's Croatia, although that might be next month. She's making a film about the aftermath of war through the eyes of children."

"You must be proud of her."

"I am, Ruth, I am."

They sit side-by-side in silence, each with plenty to say to the other, but neither sure where to begin.

"Would you rather I slept in the spare room?" Ruth says at last.

"No, I wouldn't. Besides, the bed in that room is not made."

"So, why did you suggest …...?"

"Ruth -" he interrupts her tirade about the spare room. He is tired, and he wants answers, but only if they're brief. "Why are you here?"

She lifts her body so that she is sitting up – like he is – and her eyes are almost level with is own. She has no idea where to begin. _I'm sorry for what I said after Lucas took Albany_, is barely adequate. "I had something I needed to say to you, Harry."

"Can it wait until morning?"

"I suppose so. What do I do about your minders?"

"Perhaps we can work that out when the time comes."

"What do we do now?"

"Well, Ruth, it's getting on for one o'clock, and sensible people are sleeping. I thought we might try that. You can't go home yet. It's too far to walk, and the buses don't start until five-thirty at the earliest. I suggest you stay here …... with me."

Ruth had hoped he would say that, and yet she'd dreaded him suggesting it. What if she sleeps in his bed with him all night, and nothing happens? What if she sleeps in his bed with him all night and _`something'_ happens?

"Come on, Ruth, it's not a complex question. I've asked you to stay here, and as I see it, there is no answer other than yes."

"Okay," she says, turning to face him.

Harry smiles at her in the dark. She knows that because she sees his teeth gleaming in the partial light through the gap in the curtains. They both slither down until the duvet covers them to their shoulders.

"Goodnight, Ruth," he says.

"Goodnight, Harry," she replies.

* * *

It is still dark when Ruth wakes. Something in the bed has changed, and she is suddenly aware of why she has woken. Harry has moved closer to her and his arm is slung over her so that his hand rests on her stomach, just beneath the hem of her camisole, his fingers on her bare flesh. _It could have been worse_, she thinks. As she comes fully awake, she can feel the heat from his body and his breath on the back of her neck. He is lying on his side, and is very, very close to her. Just a slight movement of his hips and he'd be flush against her back. Ruth can barely breathe, and she certainly can't move, not if she wishes this closeness to continue... and she does wish it to continue. This is something about which she has fantasised for some time now, and if his glances towards her while they're at work are anything to go by, Harry wants this also, although she's sure he would rather be wide awake for maximum enjoyment.

Realising that the tension in her body is keeping her awake, Ruth allows her shoulders and neck to relax, and finds that as she does, her back rests closer to her bed companion. His chin is now against her shoulder, his exhaled breath hot against her exposed skin, his chest is flush against her back, and his knees are bent and resting against her calves. They are sleeping – or one of them is – in the spoon position. Whenever Ruth has fantasised about them lying in bed together, this is how she pictures them – his front against her back. She drifts back into sleep with a smile on her face, knowing the man she loves is holding her close, doing what he does best - protecting.

* * *

When next Ruth wakes, it is because her bed companion is moving. His lips are against her neck, and his hand – the one which had been resting on her stomach – is pressing against her, drawing her closer to his body. She can hear the slightest of moans from his lips. _Yes, but is he awake? _


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: This chapter strays into M-rating territory, so just warning. I'm reluctant to change the story rating, so just giving a warning for this chapter.**_

* * *

_When next Ruth wakes, it is because her bed companion is moving. His lips are against her neck, and his hand – the one which had been resting on her stomach – is pressing against her, drawing her closer to his body. She can hear the slightest of moans from his lips. _Yes, but is he awake?

* * *

Ruth allows herself to lean back against him so that his lips have easier access to her neck and shoulders. His hand suddenly pulls her body back until her buttocks are against his groin, and that is when she receives the biggest shock of all. She hadn't been prepared for this, although now she's here, and Harry is holding her and kissing her (although it seems clear to her that he's asleep) and she can certainly feel how aroused he is, she's not sure why she hadn't thought this might happen. Harry is a man with all the normal drives a man has, and she has prior knowledge of how the male anatomy works.

She very gently places her own hand over his, and rubs her thumb over his fingers. Then, quietly and gently she says his name. His only response is to say her name while his lips are kissing her neck. Christ, he feels good, so good that she doesn't want him to stop. Ever. At the same time, she'd prefer it were he to be fully awake and conscious when he does – if he does – what he is well on the way to doing. Ruth briefly wonders at the statistics of people having sleep sex, and whether it is possible for one person to be awake, while the other is asleep, especially if the sleeping one is the man... and ... _does this even matter_?

"Harry," she says more loudly, grasping his hand with hers and holding it, trying to stop its movement over her stomach.

She doesn't expect his reaction to be as sudden, or as shocked. He stops suddenly, and pulls away from her. She feels him pull his bottom back so that his body is well away from her. She feels suddenly cold.

"Christ, Ruth, I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."

She turns over in bed to face him. His eyes are startled, and his face shows deep embarrassment.

"Harry, don't. I was enjoying that, and I know you were too. I just didn't want things to …... you know …... go too far with you being asleep."

"Ruth, why didn't you stop me …... before …..?"

"I stopped you just then, but only so you'd wake up." She reaches towards him, and despite him pulling away from her when she reaches for him, she puts each hand either side of his face, and holds him firmly so that he'll not be able to move any further from her. "I was enjoying that, and so were you."

"What are you saying, Ruth?"

Realising her words are not getting through to him, and that he is still in a sleep-induced fog, as well as a state of high arousal, she leans across to him and places her lips on his. He tries to pull back from her, but when she persists, and parts her lips, he relaxes, and kisses her back. The kiss is a wary one, with her not wanting to push him, and he not entirely sure if she is playing some kind of cat and mouse game as come-back for his approaches to her while they were asleep. He has only just parted his own lips,and their tongues have only just met, when Ruth pulls out of the kiss. He groans in frustration. "God, Ruth," he says, closing his eyes, and then covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Harry, there's something I have to tell you. I didn't come here for this – for sex – but having said that, I'm willing to …... go where this is going. It appears you are also. I came here for another reason entirely."

Harry sighs deeply, not sure he has the will to continue. "And what would that reason be, Ruth?"

"I want to apologise for what I said to you after I went back to the Grid after you rescued me from the drip Lucas had put me on." When he says nothing, his hand still covering his eyes, she continues. "Do you remember what I said to you, Harry?"

He removes his hand, and looks at her. Day is breaking, and there is enough light in the room for her to see his eyes, and the scar above his right eyes from where Lucas had hit him. She reaches out with her hand and touches the scar with her index finger. He begins to pull away, but stops when she runs her finger gently along the jagged length of the scar. "You poor darling," she says, almost to herself. "The things you go through to defend the nation."

"Yes," he snaps, "and that includes having you throw my love for you back in my face."

"If I didn't know you better, Harry, I'd say you went out that day hoping it would be your turn. How close am I?"

"I wasn't hoping it, Ruth, but I was expecting it. I haven't known what to do with myself since."

"Will you accept my apology? I shouldn't have said what I did. It was unfair of me to have said it."

"Yes, it was unfair, and I'll think about it."

Ruth has removed her finger from above his eye, and her hand rests on his arm. She needs the physical contact with him. Now she has had a taste of him, of his touch, she doesn't want it to stop. Ever. "While you're thinking about it …... we could …... what do you think?"

He is staring at her, his pupils dilated in the light of almost morning. She can't read him. He is wearing an expression she's never seen in his face. It appears to her to be a mix of resignation, hurt and desire. They watch one another, neither moving, her hand still on his arm, their breathing heavy, until desire wins. He leans towards her and kisses her, his sleep-softened lips barely touching her own. Had she had any reservations at all about them and what they were about to do, that kiss would have put an end any such reservations.

This time, Ruth lets him take the lead. Were she in charge of things right now, she'd be removing his clothing and her own, tossing it aside and getting on with it. His lips are still on hers, barely touching her, but sending a shiver over the surface of her skin and down to the core of her. She aches to feel his hands on her, but he is holding back, perhaps now letting her know how it is he has felt for so many years. As his lips open, allowing their tongues to flick against each other, she feels his fingers at the hem of her camisole, lifting it, exploring her skin under the thin material. During the kiss he has slowly moved closer to her, until his body is now flush against her, his chest covering her breasts, his hardness against her hip. As difficult as she is finding it to connect her thoughts, she reaches out and lifts his shirt until he stops to help her pull it over his head, and then she slides her fingers under the waistband of his track pants and pushes them down over his hips, brushing her thumb along his length as she does so. It takes only another few seconds of concentrated effort for them to both be naked. She is now naked in Harry's bed, lying next to a naked Harry, who is kissing her, deeply and thoroughly, while his fingers thrill her body in ways she had never known possible.

When he enters her, he is fully inside her before he stops and waits. For the first time in her life, Ruth is afraid she may come too soon. Her body is full with him, and her pelvis vibrates with wanting more. She waits while he adjusts his hips and elbows, his lips on hers, words flowing quietly from his lips. "I've loved you for such a long time," are the only words she recalls him saying, although she seems to remember him adding, "although there are times when you can be _really_ annoying". She will relive this moment many times in the following weeks, but she will remember him uttering words of love, and the softness in his voice for the rest of her life. On her deathbed she will hear him telling her he loves her, and because of this moment, she will die having known how it feels to love and be well loved in return. No matter what happens between them from now on, this moment will ensure that with whatever is to come, whatever they still have to face, it will all have been worth it.

He lifts his face from hers as he begins to move inside her. Even in the early morning half-light, she can see the desire, the want, the love in his eyes. She'd seen that look on his face before, and mistook it for nothing more than blatant animal lust. She'd been wrong. There is a slight smile around his mouth, as he watches her attempt to calm her rapidly spreading heat. She watches him as he moves her against the pillows, and with her hands grasping his sides, she feels she has found her place to be. They fit together so well, he inside her, she enveloping him, sliding together, loving one another at last.

Harry has been moving quite slowly, not wanting their loving to end, but as though they know what the other wants and needs, he speeds up, and it ends in sparks and spasms, thrusts and gasps. He stays inside her until his arms can no longer support his weight, and then he slides out and collapses beside her. They say little, as there is little more which needs saying. They sleep some more, his arms around her, holding her against him, but this time their physical closeness is welcome. Ruth fears she will never again be able to sleep alone.

* * *

By the time they venture downstairs to eat, the day is well under way, and the men in shiny suits are posted across the road, keeping an eye on the house. Ruth stays with with him for the day, much of which they spend in bed, sleeping, making love, and talking. As much as they both want to spend another night together, Ruth has to go home. They don't talk about how they'll meet again in this way, or when, but they both know that it will happen some time, and in some way, and that Ruth will have to be the one to set it up. Harry's phones are being monitored, so he cannot do very much. Even ringing her will be frowned upon by the board of the enquiry, and will be construed as them having a personal relationship.

She leaves by the back door in time to catch the last bus home, but first they hold one another in a goodbye embrace which lasts a long time. Neither wants to be the first to pull away. Harry kisses her before she ducks out the door into the night. His house feels suddenly cold and empty. He pours himself a whiskey, and sits in the sitting room in the dark, his heart heavy. Tonight he will sleep alone, something he has done almost every night for the past twenty years or more. Having tasted paradise, he wants it all, and now.

* * *

Ten days later, Ruth has packed herself enough clothes for three days and nights, and she has arranged for Harry to be warned of her arrival

While having breakfast, Harry's home phone rings.

"Hello," he says warily, hoping it is Ruth, but knowing she'd not take such a risk.

"Mr Pearce?" a male voice asks. Harry recognises the voice of Malcolm Wynn-Jones, immediately suspecting he is part of Ruth's `plan'.

"Yes, this is Mr Pearce."

"This is Alan Hardy from the Golders Green Post Office. A parcel of yours has been returned, so it will be delivered later today. We need to know you'll be home, otherwise a fee for delivery will be incurred."

"I'll be home. Thank you for letting me know."

Harry hangs up and almost shouts with joy. Knowing Malcolm, he'll have used a pay-as-you-go phone which can't be traced, and he would have checked the casual staff list for Golders Green Post Office, and found a part-time worker with a forgettable name. Malcolm always had been a good spook, just not a field spook.

* * *

When Ruth reaches the back wall of Harry's house, she finds a wheelie bin set against the wall, and when she reaches the top of the wall, she sees there is another one the other side, so that she doesn't have to jump down and risk hurting herself. This tells her that Harry is expecting her. She finds the back door unlocked, and the house in near darkness. She slips inside the house and locks the door behind her. She drops her bag on the table and goes in search of Harry. He is not downstairs. She is met by an excited Scarlet, so she bends down to ruffle the little dog's fur. Ruth knows where Harry will be, so she grabs her bag and very quietly climbs the stairs.

She opens the door to his bedroom, and takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to this room that she already knows well. She knows how many paces it is to the bed, and that beyond the foot of the bed is the wardrobe, and that from the opposite corner of the bed it is between three and four of her steps to the window. To her right she sees Harry sitting on the bed fully clothed. No sooner has she closed the door behind her than he is beside her, firstly taking her bag from her, and then holding her and kissing her. They stumble the few paces to the bed and then fall on it together, removing clothing as they go.

This time their lovemaking is not slow and measured. It is a mix of tenderness, passion and frenzied longing, but it is fast, like they have only a short time together. They both come quickly and wildly, letting go just when they believe they are about to be overtaken and even burned by sensation. They hadn't even got into bed, and Ruth is still wearing her camisole, and on Harry's right foot is a sock, and his trunks are still trapped around one ankle. They laugh at their oversight and their inability to wait and take their time. They both believe they have so much time to make up, and they have no idea how much time they have left in which to love one another in this way.

"I can't stand this," he says at last.

"You'd better explain that statement," she says.

"I can't stand not being with you all the time. I've been thinking. I don't expect you to like this, and I'm not even expecting you to agree with me, but I can't think of what else to do. I just can't see the enquiry working out well for either of us." And then he shares with her his idea, his plan.

She doesn't especially like it, but it's a solution which serves them both well, and they both know it is about time. It is time for them to put themselves first. They discuss this into the early hours, arms wrapped around the other, bodies curved lovingly into the other.

By the time Ruth is ready to leave three days later, they have a plan. They will need Malcolm's help, but they are sure his assistance will be given willingly.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Final chapter of this story. Thank you for reading, and thank you all who reviewed. I enjoy reading your thoughts in reviews, and they make me smile, and sometimes even laugh aloud.**_

* * *

_She doesn't like it, but it's a solution which serves them both well, and they both know it is about time. It is time for them to put themselves first. They discuss this into the early hours, arms wrapped around the other, bodies curved lovingly into the other._

_By the time Ruth is ready to leave three days later, they have a plan. They will need Malcolm's help, but they are sure his assistance will be given willingly. _

* * *

_3 weeks later:_

Just prior to returning to work, Ruth Evershed takes extended leave. She presents an independent psychologist's report recommending she have time away from her work responsibilities due to post traumatic stress disorder as a result of her being kidnapped and drugged by Lucas North. The last anyone sees of her she is talking of going overseas for a few months. Some say she has gone to Cyprus to visit her step-son, while others suspect she will visit China. No-one really knows, and after a time, her name is only mentioned occasionally, although with fondness.

Only ten days before the enquiry into his career and his handing over of Albany, Harry Pearce's Range Rover is found at the bottom of a gorge in the Peak district. The vehicle is burnt out, and the body trapped inside is burned beyond recognition, but his distraught children identify his watch, his belt – a Christmas gift from his daughter - and what remains of his wallet. DNA testing of the charred remains is not deemed necessary, after all, Harry Pearce was a thorn in the side of the British government, and if his son and daughter recognise his body, then that's good enough for them. Many dignitaries attend his memorial service, but Ruth Evershed does not return to the UK for the occasion. It is suspected that her mental breakdown and his (apparent) suicide are connected. The coroner delivers an open verdict, citing insufficient evidence.

* * *

_7 weeks after the memorial for Harry Pearce:_

Flying out of Heathrow on the same day, but on different flights, Malcolm Wynn-Jones and Catherine Townsend have each boarded Qantas flights bound for Melbourne, Australia. Malcolm has two tickets for the 5-day Boxing Day test between Australia and England at the Melbourne Cricket Ground – commonly known as the MCG, or as the locals call it, The G. Catherine plans to shop in Melbourne, and has heard that Chapel Street is the place to spend a few days if she wishes to max out her credit card. The fact that the Boxing Day sales begin on the same day as the Fourth cricket test between England and Australia is no coincidence.

Malcolm and Catherine stay on different floors in the same hotel on Lonsdale Street in the Melbourne CBD. Together they walk to Lygon Street, where they've booked a table for four at La Notte restaurant for Christmas dinner. They share their table with a middle-aged man with fair receding hair, and his companion, a slightly built woman with shoulder length brown hair and striking blue eyes. The couple have flown to Melbourne from a small seaside community north of Cairns, Queensland, where they are living for the time being. Both look tanned and healthy, and are obviously very much in love. Officially, they are Martin and Susan Cameron. Unofficially, they are Harry and Ruth. The four of them have much to talk about at dinner.

"Ruth asked me to organise this as a Christmas present for you from her," Malcolm says, passing one of the 5-day cricket passes across the table to Harry, who cannot believe what he is seeing.

"Five days of cricket at the MCG," he says, "I think I've died and gone to Heaven." He turns to Ruth. "Darling, when did you have time to organise this?"

"While you were sleeping. You sleep quite a lot, Harry."

"Dad sleeps?" Catherine says. "That doesn't sound like him, the man who manages on no more than four hours sleep a night."

"It's the tropical climate," he explains hurriedly. "I'm not used to it yet. And all the thunderstorms at night keep me awake."

"I thought it was all the -"

"I don't think Malcolm and Catherine need to hear that, Ruth," he butts in, while Malcolm and Catherine smile at one another across the table. They each miss Harry and Ruth terribly, but they would rather know they are here on the other side of the world, and happily together, than struggling with the tenuous existence they'd had in London.

"What will you do while we men are fighting the Australians?" Malcolm asks, directing his question to Ruth and Catherine.

"Chapel Street," Ruth says obliquely.

"So you're going to church?"

"In a way," Catherine adds, smiling across the table at Ruth. "It's a shopping precinct, Malcolm. Ruth and I won't be missing either of you."

Harry gazes across the table at Ruth, whose eyes are shining as she smiles at Malcolm. Despite him being prepared to forfeit an arm or a leg for tickets to this Test match – which England are expected to win – he'll miss Ruth terribly. They have been together day and night for the past six weeks, ever since the morning he'd arrived on the doorstep of her house in Holloways Beach, just north of Cairns. They'd fallen into one another's arms, kissing all the way up the stairs to the bedroom, where he'd collapsed on the bed and slept. Ten hours later he'd woken to see the ceiling fan spinning hypnotically above the bed, and through the window the intense blue of the Coral Sea, while beside him lay the woman he loved, waiting for him to wake up. They'd made tender, and then frantic love that afternoon, having spent over two months apart, and with their only communication being via Malcolm. They'd then taken a shower together, and again made love. They had not been able to get enough of one another.

And little had changed. Harry sometimes wonders at what stage does a lot of sex become too much sex, and is too much sex even possible? With his and Ruth's past of enforced celibacy, he considers it unlikely. They take long walks along the beach, swim (in the safe area, where there are no stingers), and sometimes late at night they walk down to the beach to swim naked in the warm waters of the Coral Sea. Swimming naked always leads to sex. He considers his life with Ruth to be idyllic, and they are each learning to live in the moment, and to not concern themselves about what the future may bring.

* * *

_5 days later – Melbourne - evening:_

The four of them are walking through Melbourne City Centre, having enjoyed a celebratory dinner in the hotel's restaurant. England had won the fourth test, and the test series, meaning they'd also retained the Ashes.

"What I still don't understand," Ruth persists, "is why anyone with all their faculties would want to stand around in the sun for five days just so they can win that crappy little trophy."

Malcolm's head jerks up in shock at Ruth's use of the word, `crappy', hardly a fitting term to describe the trophy which represents almost 130 years of cricketing rivalry and tradition between the two nations.

"Ruth!" exclaims Harry. "Darling, wash your mouth out with soap! It's what the trophy – which should never _ever_ be described as crappy – represents. It's about the tradition of the game."

"I still don't get it." And she knew she never would. The game, like all games, held little meaning for Ruth, but she respects Harry's and Malcolm's need to talk about it endlessly.

They walk to Federation Square and people-watch. Harry steps behind Ruth and slides his arms around her waist, resting one hand protectively on her lower abdomen, as he kisses her neck. Ruth moves her head slightly to allow his warm lips free access to her skin. The night is warm, and there is the slightest hint of a breeze. The Christmas lights, festive as they are, jar Ruth's sense of there being order in the universe. She, who has spent almost all her Christmases in a cold climate, cannot accept that Christmas can be celebrated in the heat of summer.

Next day – New Years' Eve – they all fly to Cairns, and then take a taxi to Holloways Beach, where Harry and Ruth carry Ruth's purchases inside the house, and Malcolm and Catherine settle into their holiday apartments, booked weeks ago, when Malcolm had acquired the Ashes tickets and the hotel and restaurant bookings. Catherine is happy to spend another two weeks away, while Malcolm is somewhat uncomfortable in the climate, recognising that he'll need to add to his wardrobe in a way which will expose his body more than he is comfortable.

Malcolm and Catherine bring dinner and Harry provides the wine, and they eat a casual dinner under the awning on the deck at the back of the house, the sounds of waves lapping on the beach providing the soundtrack to their meal. This will become part of their ritual over the following two weeks, along with walks along the beach, and boat trips along the coast, and hire car excursions into the rainforests inland from Cairns.

Ruth and Catherine are in the kitchen after dinner, having left Malcolm and Harry waxing lyrical about the cricket, throwing around names like Trott, Prior and Strauss, a foreign language to both women.

"You must be missing Mark," Ruth says. She'd spent time with Catherine and Mark before leaving the UK. They had had a brief two days in which to get to know one another, and to inform Harry's daughter of their plans.

"Yes, I do, but I wouldn't have missed this for the world. I've never seen Dad this relaxed …. ever."

"Neither have I," Ruth says, and then blushes and drops her eyes, recognising the implication in her words.

"Ruth …... can I ask you something quite personal?"

"You can ask, but I may not answer."  
"Fair enough. I was watching you and Dad last night in Federation Square. He …. er ….. he put his hand over you here," and she places her own hand over her lower abdomen. "Are you pregnant by any chance?"

Ruth's eyes widen, in surprise, rather than shock. "Er …... no …... not yet, but we are …... talking about it. It's something we haven't quite decided upon yet. I'm just surprised you noticed."

"I watch you quite a lot, Ruth. I've never seen my Dad this happy …... ever. He's always seemed so tortured to me, like he has to keep the country safe, but can never quite manage it. No-one should have to live year after year with that level of responsibility. I have to thank you for how happy you've made him."

"He's made me happy too, Catherine. I feel very fortunate to be free to share my life with him."

"Speak of the devil," Catherine says, smiling over Ruth's shoulder, as Harry steps behind Ruth and folds her in his arms, kissing her hair.

"What are you two cooking up?"

"Just girl-talk, Dad. I have to ask you one thing, though."

"Fire away."

"What are your plans? Are you settling down here? Are you ever going to be coming back to England?"

Harry sighs, releasing Ruth from his embrace, and stepping up beside her so that he can look at her. "This place is a bit like a honeymoon destination for us. We thought we might travel as much as we can, and to as many different places as we can, and then …... one day …... if things settle down, we just might be able to return to the UK. We have to play it by ear."

"Graham's living in your house, Dad."

"That's fine. It's what I suggested in my will."

"I don't think he'll wreck the place, but his friends might."

"I have no attachment to it any more."

"But you haven't a home," Catherine says, almost a wail.

"I have Ruth," he says simply. "She's my home. Wherever she is, I am home." Harry leans across to kiss Ruth on the lips, a light but lingering kiss.

"Ohhh …... you two." Catherine steps close to her father and Ruth and gathers them both in a hug. After a while she pulls back. "It's just that I miss you so much, and who knows how long it will be before you can live back ho-... back in the UK."

"I know," Harry says quietly, his hand still on his daughter's arm. "We'll be missing you too."

"And if you have a baby, then I'll ….."

"Whoa, whoa, what's this about babies? Ruth ….. are you?"

Ruth shakes her head, smiling at him. "No, Harry, I'm not, although it's not for lack of effort."

"Our current and immediate future lifestyle is hardly conducive to bringing up a child," he adds.

"Being brought up by an angry and depressed woman, and seeing our father only fleetingly was not conducive to Graham's and my upbringing, either, but we've both survived."

"Touché," Harry says quietly. "I deserved that."

"But I think you and Ruth will make fabulous parents," Catherine adds. "You have so much love between you, and all a child really needs is to know they're loved. Promise me you'll think about it?"

"Are you suggesting that I, a 57-year-old man, become a father again?"

"Yes. It's not as though either of you have anything else to do with your time."

They take their wine down to the beach, and sit in the sand, waiting for midnight. There are a lot of other people gathered on the beach, mostly in couples or family groups. Many take to the water, and stay there. They watch the fireworks from Cairns, a little under four miles away as the crow flies, and exchange hugs and kisses and `Happy-New-Years'. Eventually, Ruth settles herself on the sand, between Harry's legs, her back leaning against his chest, his arms tucked around her loosely, while Malcolm and Catherine take a stroll along the beach.

"I didn't think it was possible to be this happy," Ruth says after a long silence.

"Me neither. Ruth …... what did you say to Catherine about us having children?"

"I just told her we were thinking about it …... and practising a lot."

"You didn't!"

"I think she can tell that by watching us. We're quite …..."

"Hands on?"

"That's one way of putting it. She seemed quite enthusiastic about the prospect of having a small brother or sister."

"Maybe we should try harder then, Ruth"

She laughs softly into the warm night air. "I hadn't thought it possible to try any harder than we have been."

"What if it happens? What if you get pregnant in a month or two?"

"Then we'll have nine months in which to get used to the idea of parenthood."

Harry reaches around her and places both his hands on her lower abdomen, his acknowledging the possibility that their lives may change even further some time in the future.

They are still sitting like that on the sand when Malcolm and Catherine return a half hour later.

* * *

On the evening of January 13th, the eve of Catherine's and Malcolm's departure for England, the four of them gather at a remote part of the beach for Harry's and Ruth's wedding ceremony. Although they are already officially married – as Martin and Susan Cameron – they still wish to be joined as Harry and Ruth. They'd had rings made while they were in Melbourne, each ring inscribed with their names and the date, and so the rings of Martin and Susan have been put away at the back of a drawer. Catherine and Malcolm witness the exchanging of vows, written by the couple, and when they declare themselves bonded in love to each other for eternity, they kiss one other, and then hug their witnesses. Legal it's not, but they are well past caring about legalities. The informal ceremony is no sooner over than the heavy clouds which have sat on the horizon all day open with a vengeance, the rain pouring vertically in sheets, drumming on the iron roofs of the beach houses.

They grasp hands and run back along the beach, so that by the time they reach the house, they are drenched, and Ruth's headdress of tropical flowers falls apart and drops, bit by bit, on the floor of their house.

"I hope that's not an omen," she says sadly, picking up the petals of the pungent frangipani flowers.

"I think it means we have to be on the lookout for having to run when required," Harry says, stripping off his shirt.

The four of them stand on the deck out the back, champagne in their hands to toast the happy couple, as they watch the rain come down. In less than thirty minutes their clothes are dry, the hot air drying their skin and their clothing.

Next morning when Harry and Ruth accompany Malcolm and Catherine to the Cairns airport, they hug one another, not knowing when they will be together again. On returning to their house, Harry and Ruth are each deep in thought as the sit together in the back seat of their taxi. Not being able to see friends and family is the price they are having to pay for being together.

* * *

_Two years later – South London:_

Harry leans over the cot, gazing at his small grandson. The baby is only a month old, but already he bears a strong resemblance to both Mark and Catherine. He reminds Harry a lot of Catherine at the same age, but he also has Mark's eyes.

"Hello, Sebastian," Harry says, "I'm your Grandpa, and this lovely lady beside me is your step-Grandma, and this," he says, taking his daughter from Ruth's arms, "is your Aunt Lily, who despite being your mother's sister, is only a year old. I hope you two will be great mates. Lily, this is Sebastian."

Lily, bored already, wriggles from his grasp, lifting her arms in the air, and going completely limp, so that Harry has no choice other than to set her down on her feet. He watches her blond curls bobbing on her head as she toddles out the door, her clear blue eyes focused upon the box of toys in the adjoining room. Ruth follows her to keep an eye on her, and Harry's eyes watch his wife as she leaves the room. Despite their current address being Vancouver, Canada, she still is and always will be his home.

* * *

_**A/N: I hope you enjoyed. For those of you to whom cricket is a small insect, if you google `wikipedia ashes urn', you can see how `crappy' the Ashes trophy is!**_

_**I've written a follow up one-shot to "Another Christmas", called "Another Ruth". I'll post it when I've tidied it up a bit more.**_


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